


Perchance

by Westgate (Harkpad)



Series: Scenes From the Aftermath [3]
Category: Marvel, Marvel (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Angst, Depression, Drama, M/M, Not Canon Compliant, Post-Avengers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-18
Updated: 2014-08-18
Packaged: 2018-02-13 15:44:24
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,828
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2156124
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Harkpad/pseuds/Westgate
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They all finally sleep, but sleep isn't going to be easy for a while, not for Clint. Third in a series dealing with the immediate aftermath of the Battle of New York.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Perchance

The cocaine finally washes out of Clint's system, so he sleeps. Phil holds his hand and watches him fade out, trying so hard to keep his red-rimmed eyes open and trained on Phil. As Clint's eyelids flutter with the effort, Phil reassures him, "I'll be here, Clint," but he can see the doubt in Clint's eyes. Sleep wins, though, and Clint's eyes shut and his body goes limp, and Phil can feel himself relax at the sight. He finds a washcloth on the stand nearby and wipes sweat off of Clint's face and hears the door open behind him.

"He's sleeping," Natasha says, and Phil can hear envy in her voice.

"He needs it," Phil says, turning and setting the washcloth back on the stand.

Natasha's own eyes are tired, her makeup is rubbed away, and there are dark circles underneath. Phil sees lines of exhaustion in her body, too, and her hair is on the edge of being disheveled. "I know," she answers, and moves to Clint's side, putting a hand on his arm.

"You need to sleep, too," he says, moving into her space and rubbing her shoulders gently. Her head drops to her chest and she sighs.

"Not yet."

"He's going to sleep a while."

"Maybe," she says, and she leans back into Phil. He closes his eyes and fights a wave of relief at her willingness to be close. He idly wonders how often relief is going to wash over him in the coming days. Natasha leans her head back on his shoulder and he crosses his arm over her chest and pulls her tight. They lost their boundaries with each other years ago, an honor Phil has never stopped feeling.

"We should sleep," he whispers into her hair.

"We can’t let him wake alone," she answers, and Phil nods.

He pushes her into the chair he was sitting in and presses a kiss to her cheek. "Wait," he says, and leaves the room.

Twenty minutes later there's another bed in Clint's room and Phil is pushing Natasha into it. She grabs his wrist as she lays down and gives him a small smile. "You, too," she says, and he holds her gaze for a moment before he nods and peels his jacket off, unbuttons the top two buttons of his shirt, and toes his shoes off. He climbs in and situates himself so that Natasha can lay by his side and rest her head on his chest, her arm draped across his ribs. She sighs heavily and he brushes his hand through her hair rhythmically, waiting for her breathing to even out before stealing a glance at Clint, who hasn't moved an inch in his bed. Phil has them both within reach, so he allows himself to close his eyes and sleep.

Five hours later, Clint wakes screaming incoherently, a sharp, high sound over and over.

Phil clambers out of the bed and Natasha is already there, trying to get Clint's attention, talking quietly and close. She doesn't touch, and Phil moves to her side, adds his voice. "Clint, come on, Clint, wake up, please wake up."

Clint's screaming fades to a choked gasping, and Phil leans in and rubs his hand up and down his back. "Shhh. Clint. Wake up."

Clint trembles and presses his hands in his hair.

"We've got you," Natasha says, and she looks imploringly at Phil.

"Phil," Clint says, and his voice cracks, shakes. His eyes are still squeezed shut.

"I'm right here, Clint," Phil answers, squeezing Clint's hand and pressing it to his chest.

Clint looks up at Phil and realization lights his face. "Oh, shit, you're here. You're still here," he whispers, and Phil smiles at him, nods.

"Yes. I'm not going anywhere. I'm right here." He’s amazed, for a moment, at the damage his absence for just a few hours clearly caused.

Clint nods gratefully and looks at Natasha long and hard. "You look better," he finally says, and his voice is breathy and thin.

"You don't," she answers.

She’s right. Clint’s still pale, his skin looks papery and his eyes are ringed in dark circles.

He nods. "Everything's relative," he says with a shrug. Phil and Natasha both smile at his answer. It’s a common refrain for them when a mission goes to hell and leaves one of them off their game for a while

"Do you have pain?" Phil asks, and steps back a little.

Clint doesn't squint, but it's a near thing. "Head hurts like a sonofabitch," he says, and after a pause, "Stomach feels like I've been riding the tilt-a-wheel for an hour."

Natasha looks at Phil and nods toward the door. "I'll go get the doctor."

She leaves, and Phil helps Clint sit up so he can lean into Phil's side.

"I want to go home," Clint says, his words a childish sounding plea muffled against Phil's shirt.

"I know. As soon as we can."

"Phil, please. I want to go home," Clint repeats, and Phil knows the feeling – he has it right now, too – of unease only fixable by a familiar place.

The doctor comes in with Natasha and Phil presses Clint back to the bed. "Let Dr. Henley tell us what we need to do next, Clint."

Clint nods, and Phil and Natasha watch as Dr. Henley pulls a light out to check his eyes. When she shines it in the first one, Clint flinches violently back with a gasp. Phil grips Clint's trembling hand.

"Sorry, Clint," the doctor says. "I should've warned you. Can I check your other eye? I'm just checking dilation, checking on that concussion. Nothing else."

Clint nods, and the doctor tries again with better success. She checks Clint's tracking, his reflexes, and his pulse points. She nods at him when she's done.

"We're going to take you for an MRI before we let you head home, okay? I know you want to go, but do me a favor and stick around for the MRI results. I'll put a rush on them for you." She looks at Phil and he sees worry in her dark brown eyes. "He's going to need someone keeping an eye on him for a bit when we do send him home. I know he doesn't like it here, but Director Fury put that as a condition for release. It can be you or Agent Romanov, but he's not to be left alone." She pauses and rubs her temple. "I agree, for medical reasons. We just don't know exactly what's happened to him. I don't think keeping him here and waiting for something to go wrong is the answer, but I don't want him alone if he needs help."

Phil knows it’s not _just_ for medical reasons, but he nods and looks at Clint, who shrugs. "Okay," Phil replies. "We'll be sure to stick with him."

"You'd better," Clint mutters, and Phil grins.

The MRI takes a couple hours, but the results aren't anything to keep Clint in medical. Natasha pulls a pair of jeans and a dark t-shirt, along with socks and tennis shoes from a bag she brought in, but she clutches them to her chest when Clint asks for them.

"Do you guys want the bad news or the _bad_ news before we leave?" she says with a wry grin.

Phil shares a look with Clint and they say "What?" at the same time.

"So....your apartment was demolished in the Chitauri attack," she says softly.

Phil sits down on the edge of the bed. "Destroyed?" he asks, and his voice feels fragile. The apartment he and Clint shared had been his for six years and was filled with things he'd collected, plants he cared for meticulously, a feeling of home that he hadn't had since childhood.

"Dr. Banner, Cap, and Stark have been over there this morning, trying to see what they could salvage for you. They got a few things from your Cap collection, a couple plants actually survived - I think the ones from the bathroom - and they said they found a quilt that is going to be fine once it's been cleaned. They're still looking." Her face was sad, and Phil knew she'd miss the place, too. The three of them spent a couple nights a week sharing dinner and movies on his couch, and he would sometimes come home in the middle of the day after a long op and find her curled in his wing-back chair with a book and a cup of tea. She never got her own apartment; she always stayed at SHIELD or crashed in Phil and Clint’s guest bedroom.

Clint looks dazed. He'd fallen in love with the place and had made it his own, filling Phil's kitchen with his favorite utensils and gadgets for his cooking habit, and he'd turned their bedroom into an oasis with a state of the art sound system and helped Phil decorate it to be one of the most relaxing places in their world. "What's the other bad news?" he asks.

Natasha looks at them in sympathy. "Stark offered all of us a place at his Tower. He says we can use the guest floors for now and that he'll get right on designing apartments for each of us." She shudders visibly.

Phil takes a deep breath. One step at a time. Clint needs to be somewhere safe and comfortable, and if it's not their place, then Stark's is going to have to do. "Come on," he says, standing. "Let's go get some more rest." Clint dresses quietly and signs the forms necessary to leave, and Natasha has a car waiting. Phil feels warm as Clint leans his head onto Phil's shoulder in the back seat and relaxes against him on the ride to Stark Tower.

Clint dozes off and Phil figures his sleep debt from the last week is pretty damned high, so he lets him sleep against his shoulder. When they get to Stark Tower, he nudges Clint gently. “Clint, wake up,” he says as Natasha turns off the car.

Clint gasps as he wakes, and scrambles away from Phil as if he’s been burnt, shoving himself against the car door and heaving breaths in, his eyes darting left and right. Phil leans backward, throws his hands up and tries to use his calmest voice. “Just me, Clint, you’re safe,” he says, and he wonders how they’re going to convince Clint’s mind that he’s safe now.

Clint sags against the back seat and nods after a moment, and Natasha climbs out and opens his door, gripping his elbow to help him out. Phil climbs out the other side and puts his hand around Clint’s waist as they head for the elevator. JARVIS welcomes them and offers to direct them to their rooms, and Phil accepts. He’ll find Tony and thank him later.

There is a beautifully decorated guest apartment waiting for them, understated in autumn colors and soft lights, and it has a living room, a nice-looking modern kitchen, and two bedrooms off of a short hallway. Each room has its own bathroom, and Phil looks at Natasha as they finish exploring. “Stay with us?” he asks, trying not to sound as desperate as he feels.

Clint is leaning against the wall and he nods. “Yeah,” he says, his voice rough from exhaustion. “Stay, Nat.”

She looks them both over and then around the room. “Okay. I’m going to go get a few things, but I’ll be back. Try not to get in any trouble while I’m gone.”

Clint waves her off and she leaves and stays against the wall, stares quietly at Phil. Phil feels like he’s pinned to the spot he’s standing, like there’s something gluing in the air, keeping him in one place.

“Clint?” he asks, unsure.

Clint stares, his grey-green eyes are narrow and his arms are crossed against his chest. “Life Model Decoy, Phil? Those are untested.”

Phil lifts his heavy feet and moves to the couch and sits down with his elbows on his knees. “I wanted to shoot a demigod with a weapon that I had never used, that was big and did something R&D hadn’t even gotten around to teaching us. The LMDs were in the same room and I knew how to use them. It seemed like a good idea at the time,” he finishes quietly, and he puts his head in his hands and stares at the floor. He feels leaden, like the air is thick and pressing him into the couch.

He’d had all of ten seconds to decide whether to grab the gun himself or to load up the LMD program he’d been trained on a month earlier. Because he was a top agent, they’d used him and two others to test the program, creating models from his measurements and a few research sessions with the design team. His decoy had been standing in a corner of the cluttered room, staring at him with vacant, lifeless eyes. It really was an instinct decision.

Loki scared the hell out of him.

Clint is quiet and sits down next to him on the couch. He reaches over and rubs Phil’s back gently for a moment. “It was a fucking brilliant idea,” he says, and Phil lifts his head to stare at him. “I was so scared when they told me you’d died,” he says, his voice barely above a whisper. “I was hurting and angry already and then they said you were dead. The told me what happened and I got so mad at you for taking on Loki without backup, like your life didn’t matter.” He sucked in a shaky breath. “That was it for me. I was done. When you were in my hospital room later, I thought –“ he stops, looked away.

“Clint?” Phil says, reaching out to brush his hand down Clint’s warm cheek.

“I thought I was _crazy_. That Loki’s shit had messed me up to where I was going to see visions of you but not get to _be_ with you, and I was scared. Then you spoke and you were real and alive and I thought, ‘maybe I’ll pull through now. Maybe whatever Loki did won’t stick and I’ll be okay now that Phil and Nat are both here again.’” Clint leans over and Phil pulls him into an embrace, lays down on the couch and pulls Clint onto his chest, feels Clint’s muscled arms against his own, feels the warmth of Clint’s body against his as if they might actually melt together now.

Maybe Loki left them in pieces, but maybe they can meld together and survive.

  
They stay like that until Natasha comes back. She finds juice in the refrigerator and pours them all a glass, finds some strawberries and bananas as well and pulls Phil and Clint off the couch to the breakfast bar and makes them eat, and then she gives each of them a kiss on the cheek. “Sleep, boys. We all still need sleep. Tony said they’d bring the things they could salvage over tomorrow, and if you’re up for going back to look yourself, they’ll take you over. Now, though,” she adds with a sad smile, “Sleep.”

She pads down the hall to the spare bedroom and closes the door behind her, and Clint and Phil head for the bigger bedroom. There are cotton pajamas in the dresser drawer, toiletries in the bathroom, and satin sheets on the bed. They are asleep in minutes.

Clint wakes screaming an hour later, and Phil holds him as Natasha lets herself into the room and folds against his other side, and they both caress him until he stops shaking.

“Stay, Nat,” Clint whispers again, and Phil looks her in the eye and nods.

She climbs under the covers and sandwiches Clint against Phil’s body, and they fall asleep.

Clint makes it three hours this time before he wakes them with his screams again. This time he’s muttering as he shakes against Phil’s chest. Phil can’t make out the words, but he hears desperation, and can guess.

He wants to tell Clint it’s not his fault, that he didn’t have any control, that no one blames him, but the words won’t come because Phil knows they’re not going to help, not right now, not while Clint’s flayed raw. He knows that words have little place here now, that the only thing they can do is sit vigil with Clint until he can work with professionals to soothe the festering, open wounds left by the past few days. For now, all they can do is hold him when he wakes and ease him back to sleep.

By morning Clint’s woken them five times with his screams, filled with incoherent rage and guilt and fear, cluttered remnants of dreams filled with darkness and calamity and shocks, echoing with a heartache that Phil wonders how he and Natasha can possibly help him heal.


End file.
